


The Songbird

by impalaloompa



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Guilty Geralt, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, a fix it of sorts, if ive missed anything let me know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22669360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impalaloompa/pseuds/impalaloompa
Summary: What worried him the most was that there were no stories about the Bard. No recounts of his famous performances, no tales of new songs from the companion of the White Wolf. Jaskier was never quiet, but no one had seemed to have heard from him in months.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 322





	The Songbird

**Author's Note:**

> Set after episode six.
> 
> Comments and feedback are greatly appreciated.

As soon as Jaskier left, he wanted to go back.

And there were many times over the next few months when he wished that he had.

Instead, he stumbled blindly down the scree littered mountain, not really focusing on where he was going, a numbness through his entire body.

His foot dislodged on some loose rocks and he slid jarringly a few feet down the slope before managing to stop himself.

He sat there for a moment and that was when he realised he had tears streaming down his face. He wiped at them angrily. 

He was not going to cry over that damn Witcher. Fuck the Witcher.

He stood again, readjusting his lute’s strap and continued his decent towards the tree line.

The mornings events played over and over again in his mind.

The agitation of waking up in the camp alone. The panicked dash to find the others. The horror of the carnage around the mouth of the cave. The shock at seeing Borch, Téa and Véa alive. The awkwardness as he tried not to listen to Geralt and Yennefer’s argument. Then the confusion, the hurt, the betrayal, all crashing down on him at Geralt’s words.

Jaskier grabbed onto a tree for support, his chest tight, his stomach in knots and his legs shaking. He tried to steady his sharp breathing and pressed his forehead against the rough bark.

He didn’t understand. He just couldn’t wrap his head around what had happened. He should have said… something, said... more. In his shock he had let Geralt drive him away and now he had lost… everything. 

No. He wasn’t angry with himself. He was angry with the Witcher. Geralt had been reeling from his confrontation with Yennefer and had taken his rage out on the Bard, his friend. Jaskier knew that he could be annoying and a distraction sometimes, but he also knew he absolutely didn’t deserve the Witcher’s harsh words.

Maybe it’s better this way, he tried to tell himself, but he knew, with every fibre of his being, that he had left a part of himself up there on that mountain, stuck out in the cold, and that things would never be better again.

When he made camp that night, sheltered by a copse of fir trees about two thirds of the way down the mountain, he sat next to his pitiful fire with his lute on his lap and plucked the tights strings absently until a tune and lyrics started to form.

“The fairer sex they often call it,  
But her love’s as unfair as a crook.  
It steals all my reason, commits every treason,  
Of logic with nought but a look,”

He paused swallowing hard.

Jaskier ran a hand through his hair, blinking away the tears forming in his eyes and leaned against his pack. 

What was he supposed to do with himself now?

***

The small dining hall was buzzing with loud conversation as wine was poured, food was passed around and comradery was forged.

There was a stifling heat in the tight space which only fuelled the merriment. 

Jaskier drained the goblet of wine he had been passed by a delicate serving girl who had been trying to catch his eye all evening. He pulled a face at the bitter dregs, put the cup down, leaned against the wall in the corner he had positioned himself and played his lute.

The past few weeks had been a blur. Jaskier had thrown himself into his profession, playing at parties and banquets almost every night, drinking far more than his fair share and waking up in the morning with a headache and remembering very little only to do it all over again.

It suited him, to not feel. To burry himself in music and alcohol so that he didn’t have to think about… anything.

He had been less choosy about where and to whom he performed. Back lane taverns, sketchy Lords, corrupt councilmen. As long as he was distracted every night what did it matter?

He knew he was being reckless and that he was going to get himself into trouble, but he didn’t care. Maybe that’s what he wanted. To get into trouble. Maybe someone would come to save him. Like they always did.

“Bard!” the hosting Baron called to him, “Sing us a song. Something humorous.”

Jaskier dipped his head, and without needing to think launched into a ditty about a sheep farmer who fell in love with a ram. 

He played expertly, even though the wine was starting to go to his head, his fingers flitting about the strings and his voice keeping the attention of everyone in the room.

He saw the serving girl from before, winked at her and she swooned.

He didn’t see the Lord, perched near the far end of the table, fingers folded under his chin and watching him with dark eyes. He didn’t see the Lord lean over to his companion and whisper something to him, never taking his gaze off him.

Jaskier finished the song with a flourish, laughter and applause as he bowed.

“I told you he was good,” the Baron boomed, “Another, Bard.”

Jaskier smiled hollowly and started up again.

Eventually he became aware of the Lord staring at him. He tried to ignore it, but the strange expression on the man’s face unnerved him and rose the hairs on the nape of his neck.  
He fumbled as he finished, distracted by the Lord, but the Baron and his guests didn’t seem to notice. Their applause echoed off the high ceiling and again Jaskier bowed, but this time keeping eye contact with his observer. 

A few of the guests rose, moving around the table as they conversed and Jaskier lost sight of the Lord.

He narrowed his eyes as he searched the crowd and jumped as those dark eyes were suddenly in his face.

“Evening,” the Lord’s voice was smooth and high.

Jaskier dipped his head in politeness, quickly composing himself. 

“Where did the little songbird learn to sing?” the Lord blinked at him.

“Um, sorry?” Jaskier stared at him.

“Did the songbird learn itself? Or did someone teach it?”

“I’m not really following you my Lord,” Jaskier tried to subtly back away.

“Interesting,” the Lord stepped closer.

Jaskier bumped into the wall behind him, eyes wide, heart thundering in his chest.

“But the little songbird can sing. Very, very beautifully. What does it matter where he learned?” the Lord was so close now, Jaskier could smell the wine and pork on his breath.

“Right. Good. Um – “ but before Jaskier could form the thought, the Lord leaned away from him and melted back into the chattering guests.

Feeling confused and uneasy, Jaskier packed up his lute, thanked the Baron graciously for letting him play, pocketed the small bag of coin owed him and hastily retreated from the hall.

***

The Blackwood Gate was a rough, shabby looking tavern but the only place offering rooms for the night close enough to the Baron’s party that didn’t involve staying at the manor house itself. 

Usually, Jaskier would have jumped at the chance to relish in the finer things and the luxury offered by the Baron, but he had turned down the room at the manor house so that he didn’t have to spend the night under the same roof as that strange Lord.

He couldn’t forget that unreadable expression and those eyes boring into him as he had played and as he lay on his lumpy bed, staring up at the warped wooden ceiling, he slipped into restless sleep filled with dark expressions, songbirds, amber eyes and white hair. 

***

The loud creak of the floorboards woke Jaskier and he flung his arms up to protect his face just as a heavy wooden bat swung down.

The bat bounced painfully off his forearms and he cried out.

Rough hands grabbed him, and he fought hard, kicking and hitting every inch of his attackers that he could reach.

The room was still dark, and he could just make out the outlines of three people, all trying to restrain him. 

Fear and panic and adrenalin took over and Jaskier twisted, writhing this way and that until the fisted hands loosened and he stumbled to the floor. He groped about him blindly, hoping to find something to defend himself with but he was hauled back to his feet and slammed into the wall.

He grunted in pain, hoping that someone would hear the ruckus and come to his aid. No one did.

He was pinned to the wall by two of the men and the third pressed a cruel blade to his throat. Jaskier froze as the cold metal bit into his skin and a tear of blood rolled down his neck.

His heart thundered in his chest, his breathing ragged.

“Who are you?” he spat, “What do you want?”

“Easy now,” the blade was pressed flat against his Adams apple and he swallowed hard, “You are coming with us.”

“Like fuck I am,” bravery was making him bold. Or foolish.

“Hm,” one of the attackers grunted, a sound that was so sickeningly familiar that Jaskier had to choke back a sob, “Shut him up will you?”

The wooden bat collided with the side of his head and Jaskier saw black.

***

His head throbbed. His arms ached. His vision swam. He wasn’t sure where he was or where he was going. 

He had been slung over the back of a horse and the rising nausea in his stomach threatened to take him with every rocking motion.

He wasn’t sure how long they had been traveling, he had lost consciousness several times, and all he could see were the steady back and forth of the horse’s hind legs and the dirt it kicked up in its wake.

What felt like an eternity finally came to an end and he was roughly dragged off the horse and marched though a stone pillar gate and into a grand house made of shining grey granite.

He shook himself to try and focus on his surroundings but the pain in his head stabbed through the back of his eyes and he resigned himself to being manhandled into the entrance hall. 

“Ah. My little songbird,” a familiar voice wove its way around him and Jaskier could see the Lord from the night before striding gracefully down the oak staircase, dressed in a bottle green velvet tunic and breeches.

“You?” was all Jaskier could say before the Lord was upon him, dangerously close and inspecting him with that dark gaze.

“Very nice indeed. I have my songbird and he will entertain me in all the ways I please,” the Lord nodded approvingly.

“Yeah, actually, I rather thought I’d just, you know, leave?” Jaskier struggled in the iron grip holding him fast.

“But why would you ever want to leave songbird? Everything you could ever want is here.”

Not everything, Jaskier dismissed the thought quickly and tried again.

“I’m very flattered and everything but if you wanted me to play for you, you could just ask me. Like a normal person and – “ he was stunned into silence as a hot hand connected with his cheek.

“No. You are my songbird now. You belong to me,” the menace in that singsong voice filled Jaskier with dread and he struggled again to free himself.

“Come,” the Lord straightened, “Bring him this way, I have to make him ready and there is much work to do.”

***

Guilt was never an emotion associated with Witcher’s. They didn’t feel guilt, much less anything else. They didn’t get attached, they didn’t connect to people, they didn’t have friends. They just got the job done, got paid and left.

Except, Geralt of Rivia was a walking well of guilt.

He regretted what he said to Jaskier up on that mountain all those months ago. When his anger had finally fizzled out and the realisation of what he had done sank in, he quickly set out to find the Bard. 

He needed Jaskier. His only friend. The one person who had stuck by him though all the shit. His only constant in this dreadful fucking world. And he had yelled at him. Said monstrous things to him and it made him sick to the stomach.

Geralt had stopped at every single tavern and inn he came across, hoping against all hope that the Bard might be there. 

He didn’t really know what he would say to Jaskier when he found him. Sorry wouldn’t be enough, he knew that much. He had no idea how the Bard might react, what he might say. If he told Geralt to fuck off, he absolutely wouldn’t blame him, and he would spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to him. He just had to hope Jaskier would be willing to listen to his apology. 

More than once, as he searched for his friend, he had heard singing and lute playing, definitely one of Jaskier’s songs, but when he had barged in it had been some other Bard or troubadour and Geralt had left with increasing disappointment and worry.

What worried him the most was that there were no stories about the Bard. No recounts of his famous performances, no tales of new songs from the companion of the White Wolf. Jaskier was never quiet, but no one had seemed to have heard from him in months. 

Surely Jaskier hadn’t quit his music altogether? 

Geralt eventually came to a small, shabby tavern, The Blackwood Gate read the sign, and pushed his way in.

One or two patrons sat at tables and the barkeep was cleaning glasses behind the bar. 

Geralt approached him, that tightness in his chest.

“Witcher!” the barkeep’s eyes widened when he spotted Geralt, “You are the Witcher?”

“Hm,” Geralt perched on one of the bar stools, and held his head in his hands.

“C-can I help you?” the barkeep stammered, confused.

“I’m looking for a Bard,” Geralt grumbled, settling his amber gaze on the squat man in front of him, “Jaskier. A little shorter than me, dark hair, blue eyes. He’s my friend.”

“He was here,” one of the patrons rose from his table and sauntered over to Geralt, “But uh, I won’t tell you something for nothing.”

In a flash, Geralt had fisted his hands in the man’s collar and slammed him against the bar.

“You will talk, or I will end you,” he snarled.

“He disappeared,” the man wailed, clawing at Geralt’s hands, “A few months back. He was here, then he wasn’t. His room was empty.”

“It’s true,” the barkeep didn’t move but he was willing Geralt to be civil and not make a mess of his tavern.

“Why was he here?” Geralt’s eyes burned as he glowered at the barkeep, still keeping the man pinned against the bar.

“He’d been up at the Baron’s place. Some big party or something. He came here to spend the night and when I went up with his breakfast he was gone.”

“Hm,” Geralt let the man go and he stumbled away, practically throwing himself out of the tavern.

The Witcher turned to leave.

“Wait,” the barkeep called after him, “Don’t you want his things?”

Geralt spun on the spot and the squat man handed him Jaskier’s pack and lute. His blood ran cold.

“I hope you find him,” the barkeep looked at him sorrowfully. 

Geralt left without another word, a deep, unsettling concern twisting his gut.

***

“Geralt of Rivia! My dear White Wolf! To what do I owe this pleasure?” the Baron swept down in a low bow, his nose almost touching the floor. 

“A Bard,” Geralt growled.

The Baron sprung straight again, stroking his pointed beard and inviting Geralt to follow him into the front room.

“I’ve had many Bard’s pass through these walls my dear fellow, you’ll have to be more specific,” he plucked the stopper out of a decanter of deep amber liquid, poured a drink and offered it to Geralt. When Geralt didn’t take it, the Baron knocked it back then poured himself another.

“Jaskier,” Geralt gruffed.

The Baron frowned in thought then – 

“Oh yes! Of course! How could I forget. A very talented fellow. I could listen to him all night,” he swirled the drink in his glass and sipped, “and I wasn’t the only one who thought so! Lord Aldren was particularly taken with him. Likened him to a songbird, if you could imagine!”

“Where is he?” Geralt folded his arms, trying to keep his patience in check.

“Lord Aldren? He lives in a grand estate not dissimilar to my own, about four days north as the crow flies. A fine fellow, lover of the arts and music – “

“No. The Bard. Where is he?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I did offer him a room here as part of his services, but he declined, instead to stay at the tavern, the wretched place. And that was about four months ago. I haven’t seen the fellow since.”

“Hm,” Geralt grit his teeth, worry furrowing his brow, “What about this Lord Aldren then?”

“What about him?” the Baron sat deftly in a high-backed chair, clearly boring of this conversation.

“You said he was interested in Jaskier? Would he know where he could be?”

“You could try but it’s rather unlikely, my dear Witcher. Like I said. It’s been months,” the Baron narrowed his eyes at Geralt, “Why are you looking for this Bard anyway?”

Geralt ignored him and marched out of the room. Lord Aldren was a long shot but it was the only lead on Jaskier he had.

“Come back anytime,” the Baron called after him, “And maybe you can entertain me with one of your many adventures!”

“Don’t count on it,” Geralt grumbled under his breath.

***

Geralt hadn’t slept properly in far too long. Tonight was no exception. He lay on his bedroll, glaring up at the stars, his thoughts full of blue eyes and clever lyrics.

He cast a glance at Roach who was dozing nearby and checked again to make sure Jaskier’s lute was still attached to her saddle bags. He had thought about trying to give it a strum, but he knew the Bard would never forgive him if he broke the damn thing. 

He missed the nonsensical tunes and lyrics Jaskier would randomly come out with as they travelled together, whether trying to compose his next ballad or just musing at the world around him.

His missed Jaskier’s ability to fill any kind of silence, retelling his encounters and stories from the time they spent apart, or just babbling on about nothing in particular. 

He missed Jaskier’s presence. Just having him there next to him. Keeping him company as they travelled and had adventures. 

Geralt cursed himself. This was his fault, and if anything happened to Jaskier because he had pushed him away, he’d never forgive himself.

***

Lord Aldren’s house was a grand feat of elven architecture. Its granite walls sparkled in the setting sun and the pillars and carvings embellishing the walls seemed to glow in the low light.

Geralt dismounted Roach as he travelled up the neatly kept path, leading her along as he took in the vast fountain inhabiting the space in front of the golden doors. Its ornately carved cherubs rode high above fair maidens, spilling water down onto them from cupped leaves.

There was a servant standing by the door. He hurried to Geralt, bowing low and offered to take Roach.

“I’ll put her in the stables,” he drawled, “Only the finest hay for the guests of the Lord.”

“Hm,” Geralt let him take the chestnut mare and made his way into the house. Another servant greeted him. 

“For the feast?” he asked, again, swooping in a low bow.

“Yes.”

“This way, my Lord. They are just getting started,” he led Geralt into an exquisite dining hall. 

Two long tables ran the length of the hall with another table raised on a dais at the top of the hall. 

The rich smell of expensive foods wafted around him as the guests feasted with joyous abandon.

“I don’t remember inviting a Witcher to my feast,” a soft, high voice sounded behind him.

Geralt turned to look at the owner of the voice and was met with two strange, dark eyes.

“My Lord Aldren,” Geralt inclined his head, “I apologise for my intrusion, I did not intend to crash your wonderful evening. I came for another reason.”

“I assumed no less,” the Lord smiled. There was something off about that smile but Geralt couldn’t place it, “Please, I would be honoured if you joined us, Geralt of Rivia. You must be hungry.”

“I couldn’t – “

“Nonsense! I insist,” Lord Aldren tucked his hands behind his back and motioned for Geralt to come with him. 

Geralt followed him up to the top table where the Lord offered him a seat.

“Gentlemen, Ladies,” the Lord sang, “may I introduce a most honoured guest. Geralt of Rivia. The White Wolf. The Legend himself.”

Geralt sat awkwardly as noises of approval and amazement rippled round the table.

Lord Aldren sat beside him and pulled over a platter of chicken thighs.

“I know you came here on business which we will discuss later. The table is no place to talk of business,” he crooned.

A patter of laughter rose from the surrounding guests, all of whom were looking at Geralt with interest. 

Geralt half listened to the idle conversation, tried to answer the questions they asked him about his adventures and ate the food offered to him out of politeness rather than necessity. The constant nagging worry never left him but as wine and beer were poured, he began to relax a little.

Lord Aldren was very charming and knew how to hold the attention of those he was speaking to. He expressed his interest and deep knowledge of fine art, literature and music, trying to involve Geralt in a debate of who the greatest poets of their time were.

As the evening wore on and the tables were cleared, the mood in the hall changed and Lord Aldren stood up.

“Let us have some music,” he called, the noise of approval sounded from his guests, “Bring in my little songbird.”

Geralt watched one of the servants disappear into an anti-room off the hall and then reappear, pushing someone though it.

Geralt went rigid.

Jaskier.

Geralt’s already slow heart stopped altogether.

Jaskier looked thin, pale. His eyes darted about and his usual open and flamboyant posture was curled in on itself. He was dressed in fine silks that looked ill on him, and around his neck was a brown leather collar.

Geralt stared at him and amber eyes met cornflower blue.

Jaskier froze, eyes wide, lips taut. 

The Witcher shook his head slowly at him, hoping Jaskier would understand. There was nothing Geralt could do right now that wouldn’t endanger them both.

Jaskier looked blankly at him and was given a rough shove. He stumbled up onto the dais, positioned himself into the corner and waited, grasping his lute so tightly that Geralt could see the whites of his knuckles.

“Something merry, little songbird,” Lord Aldren sat down again and Jaskier started to play.

Geralt couldn’t keep his eyes off him. Emotions, some old, some new, raged through him and it was all he could do to not throw himself towards the Bard.

The Lord watched him curiously.

“Do you like my little songbird?” he smiled that off smile again and Geralt glowered at him, clenching his jaw, “He is most magnificent, and beautiful. I could listen to him sing all day. Sometimes I do, until he can sing no more and then I look after him until he can sing again.”

Geralt fought the bile rising in his throat. Lord Aldren talked about Jaskier as if he were some sort of pet. Don’t do anything, not here, not when it puts Jaskier at more risk, he told himself. There were too many people that could get in his way.

Again, Geralt’s amber gaze fell on the Bard.

He played adeptly, but there was a quiver in his voice and his eyes were unfocused. Geralt could see his fingers tremble in every break between notes. 

“You seem very taken with my songbird,” Lord Aldren leaned towards him, a strange look in his dark eyes and his smile twisting his face.

“Hm.”

“I was going to take him for myself tonight, but, for a price, you may have the privilege of his, ah, company,” the Lord’s voice was low.

Geralt’s eyes snapped to meet the Lord’s dark ones. Horror at the implication, the words he used, burning though him.

“How about it Witcher? May I share my little songbird with you? My most beautiful? May he entertain you tonight?”

Geralt’s mind churned as he forced himself to keep calm. This man was trying to… sell Jaskier to him. 

The Witcher looked at the Bard, then at the Lord, then at the Bard again.

At least he would be able to get Jaskier away on his own.

“Fine,” Geralt rumbled, “How much?”

***

The Witcher paced the bedchamber he had been shown into. It was small with a square window overlooking the forest to the back of the house. There was a dresser with a jug of water and a basin, and in the middle of the room against the right wall was a fourposter bed.

Lord Aldren had insisted his servants were at his beck and call and to not hesitate to ask for anything he needed; the little songbird would be with him shortly.

When the door creaked open his head snapped up. 

Jaskier was pushed though by a burly looking guard. The Bard looked terrified. He stumbled awkwardly as he regained his balance and the door was snapped shut behind him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt took a step forward, relief tainting his voice.

Jaskier recoiled back. His breathing was laboured, and his eyes were wild with panic.

“I’ll be good. I’ll do what you want. Just don’t hurt me. Please,” Jaskier’s voice was so small and rough that Geralt felt tears prick his eyes.

“Jaskier, it’s me. It’s Geralt.”

Jaskier’s eyes focused on him for the first time and he went rigid.

“G-Geralt?” his bottom lip trembled.

“That’s right. You’re safe,” Geralt nodded. He didn’t know what he expected the Bard to do but he expected… something, but Jaskier just stood there, arms curled protectively around his himself. 

“Why? Why are you here?” Jaskier licked his chapped lips in his confusion, his blue eyes betraying his uncertainty.

“I came looking for you,” Geralt took another step forward and Jaskier flinched back.

“Why?” Jaskier was looking at him now, fully, earnestly.

Geralt felt his heart break.

“Because you’re my friend. And I’m sorry Jaskier. I’m so sorry.”

“N-no. No. You don’t get to do that. Just waltz in here after all this time and say you’re sorry. You’re sorry? Well great, perfect. That fixes everything. Let’s throw a fucking party,” Jaskier was shaking.

“Jaskier – “

“Shut up Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice was low and trembling, “Twenty-two years. Twenty-two years you fucking bastard. Fuck you Geralt. I have given you the best years of my life and for what?”

Again, Geralt tried to approach him but Jaskier jumped back, slamming painfully into the door.

“Do you know what that fucking lunatic did to me? Do you have the first idea? Do you know what he lets others do to me? Well fuck. Of course you do. He didn’t give you this time with me out of the goodness of his heart,” Jaskier spat, tears streaming down his face, “His pretty little songbird. The fucking pet he likes to show off at parties and banquets. If I’m lucky I just have to get through a set of songs. He tends to leave me alone if my singing pleases him. But if he is unsatisfied in any way… Gods Geralt, his hands, his fucking hands, and his smell and – and –“

He slid down the door as his knees gave way. Geralt rushed to him, scooping him into a tight hug. Jaskier tried to fight him off but gave up and let Geralt hold him. He buried his face in Geralt’s shoulder and cried.

Slowly Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt, returning the embrace.

Geralt held him, feeling the tremors shake his smaller frame. Rage and disgust boiled his blood and he swore to himself that he’d make Lord Aldren pay.

When Jaskier shifted, Geralt loosened his arms and let the Bard lean back. He used the pad of his thumb to brush away the tears still rolling down Jaskier’s cheek.

“Now what?” Jaskier set his jaw.

“I’m going to get you out of here, but I need time to think,” he sighed, letting his arms slip to his sides then pace the room again.

Jaskier watched him a moment.

“Geralt?” 

“Hm?” 

“Can you take this thing off me?” Jaskier touched the collar round his throat.

Geralt glared at the collar, instantly pulling his knife from his boot and studying the leather.

If was flush against Jaskier’s skin and he worked the blade under it carefully. Jaskier held still, his breathing steady. It took a bit of back and forth but eventually the leather weakened enough for Geralt to slice through it. The collar fell to the floor and Jaskier kicked it under the dresser, rubbing his neck.

The skin on Jaskier’s neck was raw with chaffing and Geralt sat him on the bed, rummaged in his pack which the servants had brought up for him earlier, and retrieved a soothing ointment which, after some convincing, Jaskier let him rub onto his tender skin.

“Thank you Geralt,” Jaskier’s eyes brimmed with so much more and Geralt swallowed hard.

“You can thank me when you’re safe,” he grumbled.

Jaskier let himself flop back on the bed, his shirt riding up slightly and Geralt could see some of the ugly bruises staining his pale skin. He looked away.

It wasn’t long before Jaskier was snoring gently and Geralt paused by the bed wondering when the last time Jaskier actually had a decent sleep.

He watched the rise and fall of the Bard’s chest a moment then continued his pacing. He was starting to form a plan, but he’d let Jaskier sleep a while.

As dawn crept in through the square window, a loud banging sounded on the door. Geralt lifted his head to look at it and Jaskier snapped awake.

“Master Witcher?” a voice called though the wood, “Lord Aldren has requested your presence in the front room. You are to take the songbird with you.”

“No, no, no, no,” Jaskier groaned, fear stiffening his entire body, “Geralt please. Please don’t make me go back to him.”

“Master Witcher?” the voice came again with more insistent banging. 

“Be with you in a moment,” Geralt shouted back.

The banging stopped.

“Geralt. Geralt,” Jaskier was kneeling on the bed, breathing coming in sharp snatches.

“It’s okay Jaskier, I’ll get us out of here.”

“No, no. The collar Geralt,” Jaskier started at him, eyes wide.

“Fuck,” Geralt seethed. He shook his head, thinking quickly, “I’ll handle it. Jaskier. I’ll get you out, but you have to trust me.”

Jaskier nodded, determination set in his expression.

A strange relief washed though him as he looked at the Bard.

“Okay, come on,” Geralt gathered his pack, making sure his swords were easy to withdraw if he needed them, and opened the chamber door.

***

“Good morning, Geralt,” Lord Aldren smiled warmly at him as he entered the front room with Jaskier trailing behind, “I trust you enjoyed your night?”

“Hm,” Geralt placed his pack down and folded his arms.

The Lord eyed it then tilted his head. 

“Leaving so soon are we? What about your business?”

“That’s what I’m here to talk to you about. You can keep your pleasantries,” he frowned at the tray of sweet breads on the table that the Lord offered him.

Lord Aldren cut himself a slice with the breadknife and chewed thoughtfully.

Jaskier stared at the bread longingly and Lord Aldren twitched his features, inviting Jaskier to come and eat. The Bard hurried over and snatched a sweet roll but before he could retreat to the corner a hand was fisted in his hair and he yelped in pain. Geralt tensed, ready to reach for a sword.

“Where oh where is your pretty collar sweet songbird?” Lord Aldren snarled in Jaskier’s face.

“That is my doing I’m afraid,” Geralt grumbled and the Lord cast him a suspicious glance, “I was holding on to it too tightly and broke it. Witcher strength. My apologies.”

Jaskier balked at the comment but Lord Aldren seemed satisfied and let Jaskier go.

“I hope he pleased you,” the Lord turned to look out of the window.

Geralt grunted.

“Oh dear, did my songbird not perform to his best?” there was a dangerous look in Aldren’s eye and Geralt stepped between him and the Bard.

“He was fine,” Geralt growled, “Now about my business.”

“Yes, your business. Go on then,” he leaned against the sturdy bookcase, eyebrows raised.

“The Bard. I am taking him with me,” Geralt rolled his shoulders to intimidate.

Lord Aldren merely laughed.

“My little songbird belongs to me Witcher. You can’t have him, he’s mine.”

“No,” Geralt snarled, “He’s mine.”

The Lord faltered as Geralt advanced on him, quickly losing his nerve.

“Guards! Guards!” he screamed.

The thundering of feet vibrated through the flagstone floor and six guards spilled into the small room.

“Fine, we’ll do it your way,” Geralt slid his sword out of its sheath and twirled it in his fingers as if it weighed nothing. 

“Kill the Witcher,” Lord Aldren shrieked.

One by one, the guards drew their swords and one by one they were felled by the Witcher who barley had to take a step.

As the last guard fell and Geralt looked down at his handywork a strangled cry behind him had him whipping round.

Lord Aldren had Jaskier flush against him, one hand fisted in his hair, the other wrapped tightly round his throat. Jaskier clawed at the hands keeping him in place.

“Why do you want him? Huh? Why is he so important to you?” the Lord wailed, his high voice now shrill.

“He’s my friend,” Geralt advanced on him.

“Ah, ah, no don’t come any closer. If you come to kill me, I’ll kill him first. If you let me go, you can have him.”

Jaskier was trembling, he was struggling to breath as the Lord tightened his grip.

“No Lord Aldren. You die either way. Give Jaskier to me and it will be a quick and painless death,” Geralt threatened, raising his sword.

The Lord looked wild, like a trapped animal. 

He pushed Jaskier hard, forcing him to stumble into Geralt. Geralt caught him but they fell to the ground. In his hate to escape, Lord Aldren tripped over one of the guards, collided with the tray of sweet breads on the table, sending it flying and crashed to the floor.

He scrambled to get away but Jaskier was on him in an instant, punching and kicking every inch of his abuser he could get his hands on.

Geralt readied to join in but only if he was needed. This was Jaskier’s fight.

Jaskier punched the Lord hard in the face, shattering his nose. Blood spurted everywhere as the man spluttered and whimpered.

He managed to dislodge Jaskier, again, trying to pull himself up. Jaskier rolled back towards him, kneeing him in the back and pressing the long, sharp breadknife to the Lord’s jugular.

“Oh Gods please,” the Lord screamed, “Songbird, please.”

“My name is Jaskier,” Jaskier growled, forcing the blade through the Lord’s flesh. 

Lord Aldren screeched and choked, convulsing and then eventually growing still.

Jaskier leaned back, breathing hard, shaking. He looked at the blood slathering his hands and desperately tried to wipe it off.

“Fuck,” he shouted.

Geralt caught him before he collapsed forward and pulled him against his chest, carding his fingers though Jaskier’s dark hair, amber eyes never leaving the dead Lord.

“It’s over Jaskier,” he grumbled.

“No, it’s not,” Jaskier whimpered as he cried, “He’s still in here, and in here.”

He pointed to his temple and then his chest.

“I’m here Jaskier, and I’ll help you. I’m never leaving you again.”

“You promise?” Jaskier’s small voice broke his heart.

“I promise.”


End file.
